How Sherlock Holmes Lost and Regained Faith in the World
by CoolKidConan
Summary: Kid!Lock. When Sherlock loses his dog Redbeard, he loses all faith he had in the world. Just a little short fic about Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood and how their personalities have developed! Give it a chance! Reviews are more than welcome!


**How Sherlock Holmes Lost and Regained Faith in the World**

_Hello! Okay, so this is the first Sherlock fanfiction I actually upload! I've been giving a lot of thought to the entire Redbeard topic, and this is what came out! Read it and tell me what you think! Reviews make me very very happy and constructive criticism is encouraged as long as it's done respectfully! _

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters. They're originally property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and more specifically now, the BBC. _

* * *

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes this is the fifth time I've called you for dinner!" a woman's voice resonated through one of the many London houses.

Mrs. Holmes was a tall lady; she had blonde hair and a voluminous body. Neighbors used to say she looked like one of those actresses they saw on TV driving futuristic cars and saving the world. But she was far from that. She was a mathematician, with a remarkably fast thinking process and with a talent for managing numbers.

"How many more times do I have to repeat it?" she called out, strutting from the kitchen to the living room of her house.

In the middle of the living room, between the brown, wooden coffee table and the ochre sofa, she found her youngest son crouched over what seemed to be a pack of brown fur. She could see how his curly brown hair stuck out on all places behind his head, and how his green jumper slowly moved with the quiet breaths of air he let out.

"I think Redbeard's sick, mum." His voice came out as a bare whisper as he slowly turned his head around. His face was grieve-stricken. His eyes were crystalized, as if he was on the verge of imminent tears. Mrs. Holmes had never seen her youngest son in this state, not even when he fought with his older brother.

Mrs. Holmes glanced at the dog behind her son. He was laying on the ground, barely moving an inch, the only signs of movements being his stomach going up and down as he breathed. His eyes were fighting to stay open and his tail was left resting on the ground, as if it had been forgotten. He seemed nothing like the active, energetic dog they had known all these years.

"I think he's just tired, Sherlock." She answered, attending the young boy's worried heart. "We'll let him rest while we eat dinner, and if he's still like that afterwards, we'll think of what to do, okay?" her voice was soft and caring, and it flowed flawlessly as she comforted her son.

Little Sherlock nodded slowly with a frown, and stood up from his place next to the dog and followed his mother towards the kitchen, where his father and brother Mycroft were already waiting.

"You think you'd learn to come to the table when you're called." Mycroft spat at his younger brother when the curly-haired child sat in his own chair. "Manners, Sherlock."

"Shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock replied with a frown.

"What's the matter, son?" his father asked him.

"I think Redbeard's sick."

"You _think_?" Mycroft interrupted. "Of course he's sick. He's got a brain tumor."

"He hasn't!" Sherlock shouted.

"Of course he has." His brother replied. "He's got all the signs: behavioral changes, tremors, involuntary urination, lateral recumbence, blindness…"

"Redbeard isn't blind, Mycroft." Little Sherlock cried out.

"Not yet, but it's evident he's losing sight every day." Mycroft observed. "Don't try to be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one."

"You're wrong! He doesn't have a brain tumor! Redbeard's just tired! He's not going to die!"

And little Sherlock Holmes ran off and closed himself in his room.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes wasn't a normal boy, strictly speaking. He wasn't the custom definition of normal. He had a remarkably fast thinking process courtesy of his mother, and incredibly accurate observation skills. Not only that, but he had an outstanding capacity to connect his observations and draw conclusions. He was, by many definitions of the word, a genius.

And yet, the boy remained an innocent seven year old in many aspects. In the majority of aspects, in fact. He was the proud owner of a double-bladed sword he had gotten for his birthday and he was the only pirate to have ever explored the entirety of the seven seas. Not to mention, he was also the richest pirate, the one with the biggest ship and the toughest crew.

Of course his boat was the sofa in the living room, and his double-bladed sword was actually plastic covered with silver paint and his crew was just in his head, as his brother had once pointed out. The sea was nothing but the ground that held together their house, and his treasure consisted of plastic coins and tin foil. But Sherlock Holmes was convinced when he grew up he wanted to be a pirate. It was too bad none of the kids at school wanted to be a part of his crew of misfits. All of them thought Sherlock was weird.

That's why his parents had surprised him with a dog on his fifth birthday. It was a dark brown spaniel, joyous and energetic as none other Sherlock had seen. And there was one particular thing Sherlock loved about him: he didn't seem to care that Sherlock was 'weird'.

But now Redbeard seemed sick for some reason, and he refused to play pirates with Sherlock like he used to every day. And poor little Sherlock Holmes was worried he'd be left alone to play. His brother wasn't much help, either. Sherlock had tried to get him to play 'deductions' with him many times, but Mycroft would only send him off, bothered. He always won anyways. Redbeard always let Sherlock win.

Little Sherlock Holmes had been waiting for his parents to come home from the vet since they had left that morning. Mycroft had stayed home with him, and had kept reminding him that Redbeard was going to go, that he should accept the loss and grow up. But Sherlock didn't believe Mycroft. He knew Redbeard would never leave him alone.

* * *

His parents told him Redbeard was sad because he didn't have enough place to run around, and he was getting so much more energetic with age that he needed a big yard to play pirates in. Sherlock knew they didn't have a big yard they could play in together. His father told him that's the reason why they had sent Redbeard off to a big farm in the outskirts of town, so that he could run around freely and be happy. Sherlock asked if they could ever visit him. His father hesitated, but eventually agreed.

Sherlock Holmes was a very smart kid. He wasn't smarter than his brother, as Mycroft kept reminding him, but he was a remarkably intelligent kid. Which is why at the age of nine he realized Redbeard hadn't been sent off to a farm in the outskirts to play. Redbeard had been put down because just as Mycroft had said, he had a brain tumor. And so Sherlock Holmes, sad and angry at the world and not as little anymore, threw away his plastic sword, locked himself in his room reading books and refused to ever play pirates again. He kept repeating that sentiment was useless; that confusing the heart with the mind was a mistake and that love was a dangerous disadvantage. His parents were worried. Mycroft was proud.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes wasn't a normal man, strictly speaking. He wasn't the custom definition of normal. He had a remarkably fast thinking process courtesy of his mother, and incredibly accurate observation skills. Not only that, but he had an outstanding capacity to connect his observations and draw conclusions. He was, by many definitions of the word, a genius.

And yet, the man remained an innocent adult in many aspects. In the majority of aspects, in fact. He was the proud owner of a skull he talked to and had named Billy, and he enjoyed passing time at the morgue of St Bart's observing the way bruises formed on dead bodies. Not to mention, he was also the only consulting detective in the world. He invented the job.

Of course his website consisted of an article in which he enumerated 247 different types of tobacco ash and no one was reading it, as his brother had once pointed out. He wasn't getting any clients, and he was spending his days helping (or ridiculing, rather) the police as an alternative to getting high. But Sherlock Holmes was convinced he was the brightest consulting detective in the world. It was too bad none of the people that surrounded him wanted to be his acquaintance. All of them thought Sherlock was weird.

That's why he was relieved when Mike Stanford introduced him to John Hamish Watson. He was a doctor come from war in Afghanistan, and he was eager to solve crimes as no one else Sherlock had seen. And there was one particular thing Sherlock loved about him: he didn't seem to care that Sherlock was 'weird'.

But now John was marrying Mary and he wasn't solving as many crimes with Sherlock as he used to every day. And poor Sherlock Holmes was worried he'd be left alone. His brother wasn't much help, either. Sherlock had tried to get him to play 'deductions' with him many times, but Mycroft would only send him off, bothered. He always won anyways. John always let Sherlock win.

Grown up Sherlock Holmes was worried about giving his best man's speech at John's Wedding. He had called Mycroft in a last-minute desperate attempt to calm himself down, but all Mycroft did was remind him that everything was going to change now, that John was going to go, that he should accept the loss and grow up. But Sherlock didn't believe Mycroft. He knew John Watson would never leave him alone.


End file.
